If things were different
by verybadidea
Summary: You can't always hide from the truth.


"Look Constance, look! I told you he would come!"

Salieri was leaning against a table, a drink in hand (_was it his third or fourth?_), absently looking at the people dancing in the room. He turned towards the voice, Mozart's, still wearing his representation coat. Salieri sighed. Even after an intense show such as tonight's, he looked _perfect. _

He and his soon-to-be wife approached him, hand in hand. On his way, Mozart received a few taps in the back (_such impudence_) and congratulations by the people around, before finally standing in front of Salieri.

"He'd promised me he would come to the party tonight," he told Constance, joyfully. "And he did, this time!"

He finally turned to Salieri, a broad smile on his lips. The man acknowledged them with brief nod. "Mozart. Mrs. Weber."

"How did you find the show?" Mozart asked, almost jumping up and down. His energy was contrasting with Salieri's impassivity. "Did you like it?"

Salieri fought a battle with himself to not fall on his knees and praise the beautiful work that was Mozart's opera. Instead, he simply bowed down a little. "That's all to your credit."

The smile on Mozart's face grew bigger as if this was the best compliment he could receive.

Silence followed, while both men kept staring at each other, unaware of Constance looking at them, thoughtful. She finally tugged at Mozart's sleeve. "Wolfgang, honey, can you fetch me some water, please?"

He blinked a few times as if he was waking up from a dream before replying.

"Of course!"

He kissed Constance on the cheek, winked at Salieri, and left in a quick pace.

Another silence settled between the two, but this time, it felt awkward. Salieri realised that it was actually the first time they were alone, and he didn't like how her gaze was piercing through his skull, analysing him. _Or as far as I know, she's reading my mind_, he thought sombrely.

He started to turn around to get away from this situation, but suddenly, Constance was speaking directly to him.

"You love him, don't you?"

As the words registered slowly in Salieri's mind, he felt himself turning pale as death. He couldn't move, couldn't say a word, but only clutch his drink harder than ever. Whatever hell was happening on his face was enough for Constance to have her answer.

As a confirmation, a smile appeared in the corner of her mouth. "I thought so. Even _I _don't look at him the way you do."

"I…—"

"Don't be so tense. I understand. I love him too, after all."

Not daring to look at her, he put his drink away before he could drop it. He tried to slow down his breathing, but he could only focus on Constance's word. _She knows. Who else knows? Does _he_ know? Will he make fun of him? Will he hate him?_

While his thoughts were raging in his head, they stayed silent for what seemed like an eternity, only hearing the dancing from the background. Was he supposed to deny it? It was too late now. His silence was as good as proclaiming his love on a stage. And now, Salieri couldn't decide if he should disappear right away and hide forever somewhere, _anywhere_, or stay and wait for Constance to leave him in his own agony.

"He loves you as well."

Salieri turned his head so fast he thought he had broken his neck. This time, he stared at her, looking for malice or lies on her face. "What?"

"He loves you," Constance repeated. "He has a big heart, you know. He still loves my sister, even after all that she did. He loves me. And he loves you. After all that _you_ did."

He couldn't believe what was happening. His throat was so dry. "I'm sorry."

Was it the right time to leave, now?

"You should tell him."

"Tell him?"

"The truth. That you love him. That you like his work. I know you do. I saw you cried in the audience."

"I—"

This situation was surreal

"He'd like to know."

Salieri was awestruck. "You… you don't mind?"

Constance just shrugged. "He just has too much love to give. One person isn't enough. That's how he is, and no one can change that." She smiled, fondly. "I don't want him to change, that's who he is, and why he's so lovable after all. He thinks about the others before himself and is just true to his feelings."

"Constance!"

They both turned towards Mozart who was coming their way, drinks in hands. He gave a glass of water to his future wife, and handed another glass to Salieri.

The man looked at him, circumspect. "What's that?"

Mozart smiled. "Orange juice. I don't want you to get dehydrated, and your glass was empty."

The gesture, as simple as it was, made Salieri feel really heavy.

"Thank you," he said in small voice he didn't know he could have.

Constance cleared her throat. "Salieri was telling me how he'd like you two to compose a song together."

"What?" both Salieri and Mozart said in once voice, turning to her.

"That's a great idea, isn't it?" she added as if this conversation was perfectly natural.

Mozart turned to Salieri, eyes full of hope. "You'd really like that?"

Sitting in a room alone with Mozart? Seeing his genius work? Composing with the Maestro? More than _anything_.

He couldn't say this.

But he thought about Constance's words.

_He'd like to know._

Salieri took a deep breath. "That's something to… try."

"Let's go, then." Mozart grabbed him by the arm, a mischievous smile on his lips.

"What? Now?"

"Everyone is drunk and busy. And we can use the music room since it's late and empty." He turned to his future wife. "Constance?"

"If someone asks, you're busy talking business with big people."

"You're the best." He threw her an invisible kiss before leading Salieri outside the ballroom.

She waved at them, smiling wide. "I know!"

—

It was surreal.

Salieri was sitting at a piano while _Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart_ was standing right next to him. And they were alone. Completely alone.

"So?"

Mozart was looking at him, expectantly.

"What am I supposed to do exactly, Mozart?"

A loud laugh resonated in the dark room. "Please tell me you have composed before."

"I have. But that's not how I do it."

The laugh stopped. "How, then?"

Salieri started to randomly press the keys. He could feel the man behind him, waiting. "I think about the theme I want to write about. What kind of atmosphere I want to create, and start picking the chords that—"

"Salieri." Mozart never sounded so serious.

"What?"

"That's extremely boring."

"It's not—"

"Have you ever tried using your heart? Improvising?"

"Music isn't about improv—"

"Blah blah. Don't listen to yourself. Listen to me." He put his hands on Salieri's shoulders, leaning down. "Relax. Feel the music coming through you." His voice was so soothing. "You're the most talented man I know. Prove it."

Salieri took a long breath and closed his eyes. Mozart let go of him, and himself let go of what he knew about composing. He started to run his fingers across the keys. He played a short melody, and as he did so, he felt Mozart sat next to him. Salieri could sense he was thoughtful, but his presence was too much for him, too heavy, too close. He needed air.

He finally hit one last key, and had to remember how to breathe normally.

"Interesting," Mozart said, after a short silence.

Salieri turned towards him. Their shoulders were almost touching. "Why's that?"

"It's… so sad. Why using so much minor keys?"

"I… don't know. It just came to me."

"You should try it in major."

As to make his point, Mozart started to play.

The exact same melody Salieri had just improvised.

In major.

And faster.

The _exact_ same one.

If he weren't sitting, Salieri would have fallen. That was above all he knew about Mozart, or heard about. He was witnessing his true genius with his layman eyes.

Mozart hit the last key in the same way as he did and turned too looked at him, all smiley. "So? Way better, isn't it?"

He didn't get any answer.

Instead, he got Salieri's lips on his, laying a soft and chaste kiss.

When Salieri drew back, he was expecting to see a lot of things on Mozart's face. Fear. Disgust. A part of him he was trying to shut down was expecting joy. But he wasn't expecting this.

Sadness in those traits always so full of life.

It made him sick. _I've done this_.

As if struck by lightning, Salieri stood up in one movement. "I'm sorry."

He started to made his way towards the door, not looking at Mozart, until..

"Don't go."

The voice was low, almost pleading.

Salieri stopped, but couldn't face him. "I shouldn't have done that." The words felt bitter on his tongue.

"Salieri… Antonio. That's not what you think."

The man finally turned around.

"I wish… things were different," Mozart continued, face down, looking so fragile.

"I know."

"I wish… there is Constance and—"

_"__I know."_

Mozart finally looked up, meeting Salieri's eyes. "What do you want from me?"

The man left out a long sigh, and moved back towards Mozart. He slowly put one hand on the nape of his neck, resting there. He felt the composer unconsciously leaning against it.

"Nothing," he answered, gently stroking the skin. "Nothing at all. I just… needed you to know."

"Know what?"

"That…" Even after all this, he couldn't get the words out. "You're a wonderful man, Wolfgang."

Mozart smiled, a soft and sad smile. "I love you too."


End file.
